Not-So-Model Behavior
by Cobrilee
Summary: Derek Hale has done a number of things he never could have imagined, pre-Stiles. Stiles thinks it's awesome. Derek's not so sure. Part 3 of A Very Sterek Christmas.


**A/N: So this is about as graphic as this series is going to get, but I figure the present Derek gives Stiles is kind of a universal present to all of us, because damn. LOL Hope everyone's enjoying this little series so far, and if you are, please let me know. Hearing our words make other people happy is the best reward a writer can get!**

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"I assure you, I'm not." The man in front of him gestured again with the card he held, encouraging Derek to take it. Derek stared at it as if it was a razor blade dipped in wolfsbane, so Stiles intervened and plucked the card from the man's fingers. "I represent some of the most successful models in the business, doing everything from runway to print work to commercials. You have the kind of face that will make some lucky client billions."

Derek scoffed as Stiles beamed proudly. "I don't know, Der, I think it could be fun," he teased, nudging the wolf with a gentle elbow to the ribs. "I sure wouldn't complain about pulling out covers of _GQ_ and _Esquire_ to be able to show people what my boyfriend looks like, instead of scrolling through Instagram."

"Your Instagram is mostly just pictures of you making faces and which comic-based T-shirt you're wearing that day," Derek replied dryly, and Stiles made a face at him, which kind of proved his point.

"Not true," he denied. "I mean, I have, like, a zillion photos of L.A. on there, too."

"Only because we're on vacation," Derek countered. "Next week you'll be back to Batman and goofy shots of you grimacing."

"What do you say, gentlemen?" the stocky man cut in, interrupting their banter. "I have an opening in my schedule tomorrow at eleven for a meeting. I'll have a photographer on hand to take some test shots."

"We're in," Stiles said firmly, despite noises of protest from Derek. He shot his boyfriend a silencing look, which Derek uncharacteristically obeyed.

The man brightened, slapping Derek on the back. "Keep a tight hold on this one," he advised, studying Stiles with mild interest. "You're going to need a good manager, and I have a feeling he'll have your best interests at heart."

"I'm not so sure about that," Derek muttered acidly, shooting Stiles an irritated glare. Stiles ignored it, as usual.

"You could make, like, an insane amount of money," he protested.

"I _have_ an insane amount of money," Derek grumbled.

Stiles waved his hand dismissively, glancing down at the card he held. "Alright, Mr. Davis, we'll see you tomorrow at eleven."

"Oh, just call me Davis, everyone does. And fantastic." Davis beamed. "I have a feeling this is going to work out beautifully for both of us."

Derek snorted caustically as the man stepped to the curb, lifting his hand to flag down a taxi. "I hate you, you know that, right?" he growled at Stiles.

Stiles shrugged. "You love me and you know it. I just want to see them give you the star treatment. You'd be bad-ass at modeling. That glare you fling at everyone who even breathes in your general direction will make you millions."

Sighing irritably, Derek jammed his hands in his pockets and stalked down the sidewalk, not caring when his broad shoulders rammed against people trying to bypass him on the crowded pavement. He got several glares, a few shouts of indignation, and a couple middle fingers pointed his way, but he didn't even notice.

It took Stiles a few moments to catch up to him, his own slender frame not managing to bulldoze through the crowd the way his boyfriend's had. When they came to a break in the flood of humanity Stiles reached out and grabbed hold of Derek's arm, his fingers wrapping tight around the muscled bicep that under any other circumstances he would be thoroughly distracted by. Now, however, he tugged insistently, and Derek stopped and turned to face him, scowling sullenly.

"What's the deal here, Derek?" Stiles asked, his voice gentle.

Derek bristled; he hated being babied. "Nothing," he muttered.

"Bullshit," Stiles scoffed. "You're even grumpier than usual."

He sighed, reaching up and scratching idly at the back of his neck. "Does it even matter to you that I'm not the least bit interested in doing this? You just assumed control and accepted for me even though I clearly didn't want to."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. Glancing around, he spied a wrought-iron café-style seating area outside of a small French bistro and pulled Derek toward it in an attempt to gain a modicum of privacy. "You never want to do anything on your own," he responded finally. "I have to talk you into everything. And even though you always pretend to hate it, it always _seems_ like you actually enjoy it. I've just gotten used to talking you into anything new and interesting that comes up."

Derek winced, recognizing the truth of Stiles' words. He _was_ generally negative about the things his other half wanted to do or found interesting. Suddenly, he wondered how someone as adventurous and fun-loving as Stiles had put up with his crabby behavior for so long.

"If you don't want to go tomorrow, we'll just call Davis and cancel," Stiles added, shrugging as if it was no big deal. "If you really, really hate the idea, there's no point in wasting his time."

"This is something you'd like for me to do, though, isn't it?" Derek asked quietly.

Stiles considered the question seriously. "Maybe not for the long-term," he conceded. "But for a campaign or two, yeah, sure. I think it would be fun, I think you'd enjoy yourself more than you think you will, and I'd have some serious bragging rights." The mischievous grin that lit his handsome face had Derek agreeing before he knew what he was doing.

"Let's keep the meeting then," he declared, breaking into a smile of his own. "It'll be my Christmas gift to you."

"Christmas isn't for eight months," Stiles reminded him wryly. "But sure, maybe you'll have booked something by then that you can credit me for, or you can use the money to buy me something amazing for Christmas. Like one of the original _Star Wars_ lightsabers."

Derek lifted an eyebrow. "I don't even want to know how much one of those would cost, do I?"

"Luke's from episode four went for two hundred forty thousand back in oh-eight," Stiles admitted sheepishly, and Derek winced.

"How about a replica from Target?"

Stiles laughed, scooting his chair around the table and fitting himself under Derek's arm, against his side, and wrapping his arm around the wolf's waist. "What you get me doesn't matter, as long as I still have you."

Derek pretended to gag, and Stiles poked him in the side while snagging one of the menus and perusing their lunch options.

lllll

 _Eight months later_

"This was a damn good Christmas. Our best one yet," Stiles declared as he sank onto the couch beside Derek. He handed one mug of hot cocoa over and lifted his own to his lips, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and spiced chocolate and moaning happily.

Derek nodded in agreement, taking a sip of the sweet concoction. "It was a nice day," he acknowledged, less effusively than Stiles, as usual.

"You are absolutely never going to top this year's present," Stiles declared giddily, gesturing to the life-sized storm trooper on display in the corner beside the tree, blaster held at hip-level and aimed disconcertingly at Derek's chest. It had been his compromise; a few thousand for a statue seemed infinitely preferable to over two hundred grand for a lightsaber. Judging by the fact that Stiles had yelled out loud, literally jumped for joy, and then turned and flung himself into Derek's arms so hard they'd both toppled onto the floor, he figured the younger man hadn't been disappointed.

Chuckling, Derek swiped a hand over the top of his head, flattening his hair as he cast Stiles an anxious glance. "Yeah, about that."

Stiles picked up on the hint of nerves and leaned forward eagerly. "What, Der?"

Derek shot to his feet without answering, digging for a box underneath the bed. Out of that he pulled a plastic-wrapped container, which he unwrapped to reveal another box. Stiles snorted as Derek slid a narrow, Christmas paper-covered object out of the box.

"You realize if I'd found that, the copious amounts of packaging would have intrigued me more than deterred me, right?" he pointed out as Derek nervously approached the couch. He collapsed onto it as Stiles accepted the last-minute gift, but when Stiles moved to begin unwrapping it, Derek placed a halting hand on his forearm.

"So, uh, this isn't anything official," he began, and Stiles' eyebrows shot straight up. "At the last Bravados shoot, I asked the photographer to do me a favor."

Stiles nodded, a silly grin slipping onto his face. Bravados was the men's luxury boxer and brief line whose campaign Davis had sent him on a go-see for. They'd practically orgasmed when they saw Derek in person and had booked him on the spot. Derek had almost backed out of it when he realized he was going to be prancing around in skin-tight underwear, but one look at Stiles' hopeful, glazed-over face had him sighing and reluctantly acquiescing. He'd later told Stiles that this would be his one and only campaign, and Stiles had been too busy drooling over the sight of Derek in the merchandise they'd sent home with him to even think of protesting.

Now, with the unveiling of the mystery present just moments away, Derek reminded himself of that look to tamp down on his fear that Stiles would laugh himself sick. He removed his hand, gesturing for Stiles to proceed, and he did. He tore into the paper, making Derek flinch away from the enthusiastic ripping. When the reindeer-covered paper fell to the floor and there was no sound, Derek reluctantly glanced up and chuckled a little to himself, relaxing at the slack-jawed look on his boyfriend's face.

Stiles turned the picture frame around, revealing an image of a nearly-naked Derek. He was taut-skinned and heavily muscled, oil slicked over his skin to make it gleam even in the black-and-white of the film. His smoldering eyes burned into the camera's lens, and it almost- _almost_ -distracted the viewer from looking down enough to see the jaunty little Santa hat covering Derek's nether regions. It didn't escape Stiles' notice that the hat was particularly perky; the little white puffball on the end was propped up instead of falling over to the side of the hat.

"Oh my God. Der. This is… I don't even want to know how you made that Santa hat stand up so straight, do I?"

Derek blushed, an honest-to-God flare of red blooming across his cheeks. "Uh, the photographer. He's Bravados' favorite, so I've worked with him a few times, gotten to be friendly."

A hint of a scowl crossed Stiles' face, but his voice was mild when he said, " _That_ friendly?"

"No! God, no." Derek blew out a breath. "He knew I was embarrassed, and the hat kept slipping, so he had me hold on to it, except I couldn't position it where it didn't look smarmy, so he suggested I try to, y'know, _make_ it stand up, and-"

Stiles burst into laughter. "Oh my God, Derek, you've spent _way_ too much time with me!" he snorted. "Just spit it out already!"

"He talked dirty to me about you!" he blurted out, skin pinkening further. "He kept telling me how you were going to react when you saw this picture, and what you were going to do to me. The thought of it…"

"Turned Santa into Mister Happy?" Stiles guessed, repressed laughter evident in his words, and Derek nodded, scowling at Stiles' mirth. "So… What exactly did he say? Give me details."

The nervous tension eased from his body at Stiles' reaction, only to be replaced with another kind as he recalled the rather _vivid_ conversation he'd had with Ian, the photographer. "I think I'd rather show you, instead," he murmured, desire coloring his voice and making it dark, heavy. Stiles groaned, and his scent, his _heat,_ suddenly enveloped Derek.

"Last one to bed has to wear the Santa hat?" he suggested, his voice husky, and Derek's teeth gleamed as he grinned wickedly.

"I definitely think it's your turn," he teased, off the couch and racing for the bed before Stiles could blink. He was already in it when Stiles joined him, collapsing into the space beside him.

"Damn werewolf superspeed," he grumbled affectionately.

Derek leaned into him, grazing his fangs over Stiles' neck, reveling in the shudder that wracked his boyfriend's body. "Complain about my wolf again."

Stiles clutched Derek's shoulders, pulling him closer in, nipping at his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it." He pulled back, grinning impishly. "I kind of wasn't joking about the Santa hat, though."

Reaching under the bed again, Derek pulled out a hat that was decidedly too small for a head. "I think I should get a picture of you wearing the same hat I did."

Moving quickly, Stiles stripped out of his clothes and propped the hat up, covering himself before laying back and crossing his arms behind his head on the pillow. Derek choked out a laugh as he grabbed his phone and snapped a picture, then another for good measure.

"Nobody _ever_ sees this, are we clear?" Stiles demanded, suddenly nervous, and Derek shook his head.

"I'll never let anyone else see you like this," he promised, shedding his own clothing and rejoining Stiles on the bed. He skimmed his fingertips over Stiles' thigh, eyes flashing when Stiles trembled under the light touch. "You're _mine_."

Stiles smiled up at him tenderly, tracing his thumb over Derek's bottom lip. "I love you," he said simply, and Derek nuzzled into his neck, mouthing the words, _I love you, too_ , against his skin.

"Better than the storm trooper?"

" _Way_ better than the storm trooper," Stiles conceded, his voice breathless as he arched into the lips caressing his throat. "Merry Christmas, Der."

"Merry Christmas, Stiles."


End file.
